


punishment & reward.

by badaltin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Character Study, Gen, Heavy Angst, Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/badaltin
Summary: He wants to curse himself for his own weakness, but. It's not the sort of thing you tell your mother about..It's difficult, training in a foreign country so far away from your family.





	punishment & reward.

**Author's Note:**

> posted on tumblr [here](http://badaltin.tumblr.com/post/176070155675/punishment-reward-1k-youre-nothing-one-of)

“You’re nothing,” one of the boys spits, “but a  _ dog _ .” And then his fist connects with the apple of Otabek’s cheek.

In a perverted part of his mind – the same one that reminds him he’ll never amount to anything – Otabek knows it as truth. Detroit has a surplus of stray dogs. He watches them, sometimes, as they haunt the dirty urban backstreets possessed by ghosts of their hunger. Thin tongues loll out of their decaying mouths to either pant away the black tar heat or lick their paws swollen from infection and fighting.

One dog in particular stands out in Otabek’s mind. She was a lab of some mix, straw fur matted and falling out near joins. The skin over her ribs and pelvis would sway back and forth every time she moved, like a tablecloth manipulated by a master magician. But there was no magic, no overzealous reveal. Only the odd crook of her tail, and the axis she leaned on whenever she tried to stand.

One time, after the rink closed early, Otabek observed her from a distance. She dug through rotten waste bags and litter. And when she accidentally overturned an empty trashcan, the clang of metal had her pressing her shallow belly flat to the alley floor in submission, ears flat and terror trembling through her stilt legs.

Covered in mud and sticky food wrappers; the textbook definition of pitiful.

That’s him now, only worse. He cowers in the locker room while jealous children take their frustrations out on him, and he doesn’t fight back. It wouldn’t even be that hard, he thinks, to try and block the blows, to yell for a coach.

It wouldn’t even be that hard.

He doesn’t do it.

.

_ You have one new voicemail _ .

It’s an hour past curfew when Otabek gets back to his room, but unlike the hostel in Russia, these Americans don’t seem to care what time he drags himself back to the dorm.

The space is indigo with the night; on the edge of his periphery, his broken digital clock blinks angrily, frozen at 00:00.

He limps over to the little kitchenette nestled in the far corner of his limited dorm space. There’s a cabinet that he keeps his hot plate in, a sink, a mini fridge, and an oven that stuttered black smoke the one time he tried to heat up bread.

Otabek flips a light switch. The ghastly fluorescent tube above his sink stutters on, humming a steady static noise he’s long since gotten used to. It casts a ghostly glow upon everything. His skin is bleached anemic with it, a beautiful, violent contrast to the scarlet flesh torn up at the heels of his hands. A new drop of blood wells up in one of the fresh scrapes, and a pale star twinkles false hope back at him.

He turns on the faucet with his left elbow. Though he braces himself, it still stings when cold water spills over his fingers and scatters the blood and stray bits of asphalt. He is careful not to agitate the abrasions as he dries off; they aren’t too bad, so he lets them be.

He takes stock of his injuries. His knees need cleaning, but the real loss is the holes in his joggers. His jaw is banged up – will likely bloom colorful bruises tomorrow – but it isn’t broken. Tongue slightly swollen. Lips split.

His ribs, though. Otabek should see a doctor, get them x-rayed, but. There’s no way he could do that without his parents finding out, and even the notion of them discovering how he’s let them down and allowed these punks to bully him has shame flaring up hotter than the pain.

He exhales, and it’s like digging daggers into either side of his torso.

.

He’s sitting on his bed with an ice pack around his middle when he presses  _ play _ .

_ “Hello Otabek, my treasure.” _ Even through his cellphone’s speakers, his mother’s voice imparts more warmth than a crackling hearth fire.  _ “You didn’t pick up, so we assumed you’re still at the rink. You’ve never missed a scheduled call before, so when you get this, send us a text to let us know that you’re okay.” _

The ice pack crinkles as Otabek shifts.

_ “We’re so proud of you, but don’t overwork yourself! Getting hurt is no good, right?” _

_ “Leave the boy alone,” _ his father says, coming out tinny and distant. “ _ He’s got enough on his plate without you nagging him. _ ”

Otabek rolls his eyes; he’d bet his competition skates that his mother had done the same.

_ “Hi Beka!” _ It’s Ershat, now, yelling over the receiver. Otabek can picture his little brother’s chubby eight-year-old face, greasy with the porridge he eats every day for breakfast.  _ “Alia hogged all the hot water this morning for her bath-” _

_ “-Did not!” _

_ “Did too!” _

_ “Did not! And you’re hogging the phone!” _ His little sister whines.

_ “Children!” _ His mother scolds.

_ “How long do these voice messages last?” _ His father asks.

_ “Oh, not long enough. Children! Say goodbye to your brother before you get ready for school!” _

When the entire Altin clan choruses goodbye, a tight mass twists in the center of Otabek’s chest. He hits replay, and the feeling claws up his throat to bob alongside his Adam’s apple. On the fourth listen, the boy knuckles his teeth and bites down, breathing ragged in the confined space.

He’s a failure. It’s so stupid.  _ He’s _ so stupid, and sad, and pathetic for trying again and again when everything is too hard.

But listening to his family, his younger siblings cheer him on is unbearable.

“I, I want to quit,” Otabek sobs into his fists.

_ “Hello Otabek, my treasure,” _ his mother says again, and every part of him throbs in a single, choreographed ache _. _

“Mama, it’s not fair!” he wails to an empty room. “I want to go home!”

He’s like a little lost lamb, bleating to his parents for rescue. But he can’t go back, not yet. Not like this. 

Otabek promised them a medal. Alia, Ershat, baby Aimira born last year in the midst of competition season - all of them expect a triumphant return. Head held high, their brother is to come home victorious. 

Otabek inhales unsteadily, and thumbs open his texting app. He wants to curse the boys who humiliated him, curse the stray dogs he cannot help but compare himself to, and curse himself for his own weakness, but. It’s not the sort of thing you tell your mother about.

_ ‘Sorry, I stayed late.’ _

He pauses. The weight of the day is crushing in its unforgiving intensity, but he has enough strength to send one more text.

_ ‘I’m okay, though.’ _

**Author's Note:**

> i started this fic over a month ago and was almost finished with it when i heard about denis ten's passing. my heart breaks for his family's - his country's - the _world's_ loss. you were taken from us too soon, denis. rest in peace.


End file.
